


Two 2 Tango

by regsregis



Series: Breaking your habits [10]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, pwp really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 08:36:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15991604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regsregis/pseuds/regsregis
Summary: They say selfishness is bad so why does finding someone who's selfish compatibile with you feel so good?





	Two 2 Tango

Rhys is a busy man, he’s got work to do and places to be and right now, he’s really busy trying to keep himself going. To stop checking the calendar and the clock, to avoid counting down the days and hours until Jack comes back. And that’s because he’s a man with principles, can’t let himself look desperate, right?

Gotta keep some pretenses up.

It comes around to bit him on the ass, of course it does. 

Rhys is a busy man, so busy pretending he doesn’t care he actually misses, ignores, the pop up notification that his favourite menace has return from his off-world trip.

The sudden, unannounced beep from his office’s door surprises him, makes him jerk in his seat and frown, even more so when he spots Jack strolling in like he owned the place and owned Rhys’ precious time. He does, the former and the later but Rhys lies to himself that’s not true and quietly curses his own stubbornness. 

There are few things Rhys hates more than surprises, even the ones he himself, has accidentally cooked up for himself - despite his better judgement, but he tells himself that currently, he hates the self-satisfied smirk on Handsome fucking Jack’s face more. What an ass. Couldn’t even bother with a cursory ‘hey im back text’.

Rhys ignores the unread messages counter flashing red in the corner of his echo eye. The timestamp reads 30 seconds ago anyway.

As pleased with himself as Jack looks, he also looks like a man on a mission, said mission taking him in long, purposeful strides across the office and right into Rhys’ personal space. He moves fast, fast enough that Rhys, right now distracted with trying not to scold himself for his dumb, stupid, and very intentional forgetfulness, doesn’t notice fingers curled into the lapels of his jacket until they are tugging and dragging him up. Ten seconds ago Jack was at the door, two seconds ago he was invading Rhys’ comfort zone and a second ago his face has painfully collided with Rhys’. 

Right now Rhys has a split lip and a foul mood turned worse.

There is enough strength in his cybernetic arm that Jack stumbles when he’s shoved back, a somewhat dumbfounded expression comically arching his eyebrow up and an unspoken ‘what’ on his parted lips.

“God fucking damn it!” Rhys gives voice to his scrambled thoughts.

The words, or maybe the sound or tone of his voice wake Jack up from his brief stillness, sending an array of emotions across his features, from the first, budding hint of his usual dumb smile he sometimes wears in private, through absolute outrage and back to the tight lines of a single minded focus.

He’s back in full force, arms coming up to wrap around Rhys’ waist, face tucked into the crook of his neck, wet kisses and feverish words fanning over the bullseye tattoo, “hey, hey kitten, missed ole’ Jack, didn’t you, don’t be a prissy little thing, come on…” - it’s basically an unintelligible string of pet names and encouragements, clammy hands trying to work their way under Rhys’ clothes.

“Jack!” Rhys is in no mood for letting Jack slobber all over him like that, mostly because he’s still mad at him for making Rhys, of all people, forget that he’s gonna be back and for letting himself be caught unprepared. 

What an absolute ass.

“Stop it for fuck’s sake, will ya?” another stronger shove, a mean kick to Jack’s shin, and Rhys can breath again. In turn he gets a frown that’s more of an incredulous kind than actually pissed off. There comes a mumbled ‘the fuck’s wrong with you’ and the nearly audible question mark hangs like a noose in the space between them.

“We’re at work.” Rhys says as it could explain everything. He takes a cautious step back, crossing both arms over his chest to stop himself from rubbing the back of his neck and furrows his eyebrows for good measure. 

Jack doesn’t look convinced in the least, mirroring Rhys’ posture although there is a hint of betrayal on his face. Something very small and quiet and not entirely unreasonable says that maybe Jack’s not really at fault here.

The man uncrosses his arms and then expectantly motions to himself, a wide sweeping gesture to encompass his body knees to chest, “well that’s your job too pumpkin, get to it before I change my mind about making it fun for you as well.”

Whatever it was that oh so foolishly tried to speak in Jack’s favour, gets instantly stomped out by the man himself.

Rhys puts on his best ‘try me bitch’ expression but only says “it’s not the right place…”

But by now he has started simmering down, pulse dropping down to something more manageable, and he takes another look at the man staring daggers at him. He also takes the time to register the scent of damp wind and dirty padding inescapably clinging to all those who choose to take the fastest interplanetary lines. The folds and creases intersecting Jack’s leather jacket are only marginally deeper than the ones under his eyes and around his mouth, and he doesn’t look like he had the time to properly groom his hair in a while. 

So maybe it’s not the right place but the time doesn’t seem all that awful, despite Jack’s certainly awful behaviour a different kind of longing timidly tries to remind everyone of its existence. 

When all is said and done, Rhys doesn’t mind Jack all that much, he quite likes Jack’s good looks, his pretentiously careless hairdo, perfect white teeth Rhys knows for a fact Jack got done, and cheekbones that could cut diamonds. He rather enjoys how it makes people green with envy, stoking the warm, fuzzy feeling inside of him that he has the best of the best. Prime cut as Jack has put it himself.

At the same time, he absolutely hates the man.

Jack, where do you even begin with Jack. What and absolute utter ass, selfish and egocentric to the core. Unable to see past the tip of his own dick and a manly man from planet man in the man galaxy. It gets on Rhys’ nerves so bad he’s constantly deeply perplexed he hasn’t snapped and choked that moron down yet.

But in the end, he genuinely loves this perfect idiot, for all the little flaws that make the man up, the silly confused expression he sometimes wears when he’s too full, sleepy or well fucked to care, the constantly chipped nails that tend to catch against Rhys’ skin but which give the best head scratches, and the pudge beginning to build around Jack’s middle.

Rhys needs the Jack he likes, uses the one he hates and sleeps soundly next to number three. 

There are fingers snapping right in front of his eyes and Jack’s face, with jaw set in a stubborn expression and crooked eyebrows, comes into Rhys’ focus. Now that his attention is once again turned towards present, Jack throws his hands in the air and shakes his head.

Rhys replies with a jerk of his head, an inelegant double chin and a roll of his eyes to illustrate his still somewhat exasperate state.

Jack’s head drops slightly with an angry huff making his nostrils flare.

This whole completely wordless conversation however seems to have cleared some air between them and Rhys makes his mind up, finally on the move again and the hand heavily dropped over the back of Jack’s neck startles the man. That’s enough leverage to steer him back towards the door, Rhys half leading half dragging him along.

“Get going Jack.”

Jack has lost, forgotten or disregarded his original purpose but Rhys managed to find and pick it up for the both of them, walking them down to the underground parking, his car greeting him with an annoyingly cheerful beep.

At first, Jack sits the ride through with his arms crossed and a petulant pout but it doesn’t take too long for him to start warming up, eventually getting to relating the events of his trip. Rhys even laughs when he hears this or another juicy gossip or how Jack masterfully played some stupid representative that thought they could scam Atlas out of money.

The lift arriving on minus one slides open, Rhys, shooting more and more coy glances, shoves Jack in, following in a blink of an eye until they are slotted chest to chest.

“Those idiots had it coming. You are a fucking genius,” Rhys grins and Jack swells with pride and self satisfaction. He doesn’t even reply, pulling him in for a, this time, much more eagerly reciprocated kiss. 

The ride up to the penthouse could have taken an hour or a minute, not that either of them noticed, stumbling in an awkward bundle of legs through the door and into the safety of their shared apartment. 

Jack only stops to scoff at the empty take out boxes scattered across the floor and Rhys concludes that with a careless shrug, more interested in getting the other man out of his multiple layers of fabric. He’s bodily pushed and then pinned against the wall, fingertips, weathered by time and guns, slip over his hips and under Rhys’ button up. They find their way up his back only to be dragged down, nails scratching hard enough to raise thin lines of reddened flesh and he sighs around the teeth currently worrying at his bottom lip. 

Rhys gives as good as he gets, bowing down slightly to keep them close and holding Jack in place with one hand cupping his jaw and the other tangled into his hair. The only pause that happens is when Jack dips his hands past the waistband of Rhys’ pants and gets a handful of his ass. That’s enough to break the kiss and Rhys swears particularly nasty. He follows that with a deep exhale and drops his head against the wall. 

“...didn’t know you were coming back today so that might not be the best idea,” he’s back to quietly cursing himself, Jack and the whole world for his misfortune. 

At first Jack meets that statement with a flat stare and pursed lips but then he does a one eighty, going for flirty slash handsome - which in Rhys’ opinion looks ridiculous but at the same time he can’t help falling for it each and every time - thumb stroked over his damp lip as Jack leans in closer, gaze heavy and half lidded as his eyes roam over the point of contact. “That’s okay babe, don’t always gotta come in through the back door, there’s always the front entrance,” and just to illustrate his obviously obvious innuendo, the thumb slips past Rhys’ lips.

It’s his turn for a flat stare and a light bite prompting the finger to retreat, “don’t care what you do, just figure it out.” Even his tone is flat even though, despite everything, the front of his pants isn’t. 

“Sure will,” Jack’s back to bearing down on him with his front, Rhys trapped between the wall and the burning hot body, not that he really minds, that is, until… “the only unknown here is whether you’ll enjoy it as much as I will.” 

Rhys chokes and hiccups against the sudden pressure of a hand over his adam's apple but doesn’t struggle, just stares, slightly cross eyed due to the proximity, down the length of his nose, baring his throat even further and running his tongue over lips bitten red. 

The falling crescendo of Jack’s ‘awww’ couldn’t fool anyone with it’s dubious sincerity, closely followed by a ‘thought I care kitten?’.

No, Rhys’ didn’t think Jack would care much for his comfort or pleasure, he, however, knows that this stubborn idiot cares about the high of watching Rhys come undone and that’s good enough. Better than that even - at least they know where they stand with each other. 

He doesn’t protest when he’s walked back towards the bedroom, hanging onto the loops of Jack’s pants as hard as he’s being pushed back, letting go only once he feels the bed right behind him. 

Rhys has never thought himself to be the next primadonna material, having never fully grown out or adjusted to the sudden awkward teenage phase when his limbs sprouted forward without a warning. He still occasionally stumbles, walks into things and right now, drops down onto the mattress in a graceless heap of tangled legs, kicking about when Jack tries to rid him of everything below his waist. They are only partially successful, Rhys’ underwear stuck halfway down when Jack loses whatever slivers of patience he still had and rolls him onto his side, crawling onto the bed right behind him. He’s multitasking, Rhys’ ears picking up the sound of a bottle being uncapped and a zipper pulled down and he throws one sideway glance over his shoulder to confirm that. After that he leaves Jack to his own devices and with a satisfied sigh wraps one hand around himself, a few experimental strokes given before he settles into a fairly slow but thorough pace. 

Feeling the wet heat poking just below the curve of his ass, Rhys locks his legs tighter and bows his head to look down. Just as expected, he can see the very tip of Jack’s dick coming into view and brushing over the sensitive skin of his balls. The pressure however doesn’t seem to satisfy Jack all that much as he leans heavily with one hand over Rhys’ thigh and the other holding onto his hip.

At it’s core it is a very selfish act, Rhys barely bothering to offer the minimum effort and Jack treating him like nothing more than a fleshlight but ultimately it’s as much about pleasure itself as it isn't. Rather, closeness and weird underlying kind of trust that comes with longer partnership - that your partner knows damn well what they like and how they like it and that they are fully capable of taking care of their own pleasure.

That is, until that part of Jack that is so keen on villainous monologuing wakes up, prompting the man to stop his lazy rhythm and grab a handful of Rhys’ hair, pulling him back at a harsh angle.

Rhys growls and huffs and jerks himself off a little bit faster. 

“Later kitten,” Jack’s damp breath brushes to Rhys’ ear, “later, I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll be squelching like a pig.”

It’s that certain kind of lethargic spell that makes all of Rhys’ muscles relax, hand falling limp onto the mattress, “I’m flattered by your chivalrous promise,” even his voice sounds limp.

Jack replies with a nearly cartoonish sounding snigger and goes back to his task without a care in the world. He’s picking up the tempo, curling over Rhys with a whisper of a breath ghosting over his skin. The movement jostles him across the sheets and with a defeated sigh Rhys resigns himself to postponing getting off, one hand tangling into Jack’s mussed up hair as he stares blankly at the ceiling. Sometimes it’s easier to let Jack do what he wants and it’s not like Rhys isn’t enjoying himself, muffled huffs and half murmured words keeping the tinders of his arousal burning. It just isn't enough to stoke it into a full blown fire, his attention now turning more towards soaking in Jack's reactions and how he seeks his own pleasure within Rhys’ body. 

It doesn't take him too long to reach the finish line, the usually combed back curl of his hair now sticking to Rhys’ skin as he wraps one arm around the man driving into the slick tightness between his legs. It’s as good of an ego boost as any because Jack feels starved out for contact, a low guttural groan pressed into the crook of his neck as he comes to a still, a few shivers making him tense up. 

It doesn't take him too long to recover either, a toothy grin spreading across his flushed face, “now pumpkin, that we have that out of the way, time to play a little bit.” The tone is threatening but the sluggish movements as he rolls Rhys onto his back, scuttling forward to sit between his spread thighs, are anything but. 

Jack slides his underwear all the way down and tosses it behind to slowly rotate with the blades of a ceiling fan it's hanging from. Rhys will grumble about it later, for now watching Jack greedily run his hands up the exposed length of his front and to where he’s gone down to a half mast. There’s a disapproving tut, and then another one when Rhys tries to urge Jack to keep going, to touch him or kiss or whatever the man has in store for him, anything than the sudden drop in attention. 

A pillow, a friggin pillow - that’s what Jack goes for, Rhys’ eyebrows knitting in confusion when it's handed to him. 

“What am i supposed to do with it?“ he questions and Jack immediately shushes him. 

“Keep quiet if you don't want the next one over your face,” Jack leans forward, forcing him to bend his spine and forcing the hands holding the pillow into the mattress above his head,” you hold onto that thing and if i see you move it an inch, I'll make you pay.”

Rhys nods, what else is he supposed to do anyway, and things clear up. Somehow it’s going to be worse than being tied down, he can already tell, because then he could struggle against the rope, tie, belt, whatever Jack’s chosen binds would be - but here, he’ll have to do all the hard work of restraining himself, well, by himself. Regardless, under the watchful gaze, Rhys stretches his body out, spine slightly angling up and one, still slick from the lube and jack’s release, thigh drags up the man’s side. He always knew he looked good like that, and Jack seems to agree, mismatched eyes roaming for a while over the body laid bare in front of him with as much appreciation as they do with hunger. 

In return, Rhys keeps watching him from under lowered lashes, mouth slack open with a silent ‘o’ when Jack teases down the more sensitive skin of his inner thighs and the lines leading up to his hips. With the aid of a dash of lube, Jack’s touch turns into a smooth, steady glide, partly straying away from Rhys wants it the most and partly offering something closer to a massage. As much as it has him relaxing, it also makes his hips buck into the fingers rubbing him, everything too slow and drawn out to satisfy the growing need in him. 

Jack laughs, ever the mean one, and tells him to stay put, both fists now alternating as they begin to pump and Rhys lets his head roll back and knees press into Jack’s side in useless frustration. He can't hold back a groan as he tosses a brief look up the length of his body to see Jack now rub his thumbs in little circles just underneath the sensitive ridge of the head of his cock, skin glistening and slick and turning a deeper shade of red. There is no denying that while the slow pace has him impatient and itching for more, it’s also doing a pretty fine job of steadily inching him closer to his tipping point, desperation beginning to creep from behind. 

With Jack you’d expect a quick hand job or an equally quick fuck, full of bites and snarls, with their pants still tangled around their thighs, and that’s how it usually goes down. And yet, the raising waves of pleasure, coming up higher with each pass of Jack’s hands, have him panting by now, deep breaths shaking Rhys to the core and fingers now clenched into the pillow somehow weighing his hands down as effectively as any other type of restraint. 

The oncoming release feels inevitable, small twitches settling into the muscles pulled taut and by now he’s openly groaning, sounds intermingling with harshly sucked in breaths and needy keens. He could stay quiet, Rhys reasons with himself, but seeing what it does to Jack, how his eyes light up with every little moan he can wring out of him and how he follows the squirms of the body stretched before him is a drug in and on its own. One he thinks he could never get enough of. 

With back at a harsh angle, shoulder blades barely touching the mattress and breath caught in his too tight chest Rhys is wound up tighter than he ever remembers himself to be. He jerks his hips up into the welcoming tightness of Jack’s hand but then he can’t slide back from it, caught into a tight grip and with a near pained mewl balancing on his lips. 

It only makes the other man smirk, and it’s a mean mean mean smirk, eyes slanted at the corners and teeth peeking as he leans over him once again, “ready to admit you’ve missed me cupcake.”

This absolute, outrageous asshole, Rhys uselessly thumps his head against the bed and raises his arms, bent at the elbows and with hands obediently still under the pillow, “Jack, what the fu…” the swear turning into a hiss when the grip tightens even more and Jack runs the thumb of his free hand over the very tip of his dick. 

“Come on princess, you’ve been acting up since I got back,” his tone is sweet, overly so, and Rhys can’t help the way his body trembles with the restrained need for an outlet. “All you have to do is tell the truth.” 

“Why do I…” love you so much? “...put up with your bullshit, ” Rhys complains, still trying to get some friction going with jerky rolls of his hips. He’s resisting Jack’s order on principle and just because and despite everything, tethering on the edge like that is going to pay off when the release finally comes. And that’s the rational part of his brain talking. The less rational part however, the one directly linked with his dick, is howling for the torture to end, for things to happen right now, now now. 

“Dunno pumpkin, but I know you’d cry yourself to sleep without me.” Jack pauses, pretending to be lost in thoughts,” oh wait, right, cause I’m awesome,” he gives a squeeze, almost as if considering letting go only to tighten his fingers and tease along the incline of the slit leaking clear fluid, “and hot,” he does that again, “and…” each boastful adjective followed with more teasing. ”Also, did I mention handsome?” at least three times by now but Rhys isn’t really in the mood for counting, pulled taut like a bow and shaking. 

He turns his head and tries to push the pitiful moan into his flesh arm, to hide his desperation even though it feels like he’s coming apart at the seams. The grip loosens momentarily, Jack’s fist gliding up with a twist but the other hand is already circling the base of his dick and he chokes on his own breath and a name he didn’t mean to let out. 

“That was nice,” Jack continues in a conversatory manner, “but not what i wanted do hear. Come on, no need to try an act tough,” he keeps talking and talking and the teasing doesn’t stop, the sharp pinprick of nearly ticklish pain making Rhys’ toes curl when Jack traces his nails over the tenderest spots. 

It's only a matter of time before Rhys gives in, always is, because he can't remember the last time he denied Jack anything, voice laced with needy desperation, “yes, christ yeah please please please, missed you, just lemme…” Jack doesn’t let him finish the sentence again but he does let him tumbled over the finish line with a few purposeful strokes, Rhys rendered completely mute after his little plea, coiled up so tight he can’t breath or think. The orgasm rolling though his body is violent and sudden, a burst of brilliant brightness and a ringing in his ears. The tightness clenching his muscles boils over and once it’s gone, he’s left completely boneless, legs loosely splayed and shallow gasps sucked in around the dryness in his throat. 

When he finally can peel his eyes open, Jack’s face is hovering closely over his, a curious expression instantly melting into a wide, self satisfied grin. There isn’t much strength currently in his body, but there is just enough to smack that annoying nuisance in the face with the pillow.

Jack rolls over easily, cackling as he goes down, but doesn’t stay there very long, getting up to head for a shower and coming to a brief halt when Rhys speaks again, “I did, you know, miss you.” More than he’s willing to admit even to himself. 

He gets a cocky look and a smirk thrown over Jack’s shoulder, “duh, ‘f course you did. Too bad it took me nearly twisting your dick off to say that.” 

Rhys concludes it with an offended sigh. 

 

 


End file.
